Below the Salt
by wanderamaranth
Summary: AU. Detective Dean Winchester and his partner Castiel Aulneau are called to investigate what appears to be a basic traffic accident. However, Dean can tell there's something about the accident that is making Castiel nervous.


**Warnings:**sexual content, language, permanent injury (minor character), dub-con, appropriation and modernization of various fairy tale elements, mentions of murder and suicide, kidnapping

**Summary:** AU. Written for dc_everafterchallenge on LJ. Prompt story: Fairy Ointment.

Detective Dean Winchester and his partner Castiel Aulneau are called to investigate what appears to be a basic traffic accident. Dean is irritated to have been given such an assignment until it becomes apparent that one of his close friends was involved. Moreover, the cause appears to be anything but careless driving. Plus, there is something about the investigation that is making Dean's normally dedicated partner suggest they drop it altogether, which only serves to make Dean all the more determined to find out what happened, and why it's making Castiel so nervous.

**Author's Note:**_If you are interested in Disney-or-romantic style fairy tales with unarguably happy endings, this is not the story for you. My preference for fairy tales tends to run towards the darker, more "traditional" sort of tale, and this story reflects that._

Although the majority of this has been beta-ed by the lovely quantum_witch_, there are scenes and elements that were added after her read-through, so any mistakes found are my own. Detailed and possibly self-indulgent author's notes and credit for elements borrowed from other sources at the end._

**Disclaimer:**

_ I do not own nor am affiliated with any personage or company that could conceivably (or inconceivably) earn profit from the posting, promotion, or distribution of these fan works. **It's fanfiction, folks.** I'm not taking myself too seriously, and I don't expect you take me or my writing very seriously either.  
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><p>Glass crunched under Detective Dean Winchester's feet as he walked up Highway 400. The red lights from the emergency vehicles and the yellow from the tow trucks pulsed together in a lazy rhythm. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a siren whistling, and he hoped, in a brief flash of perversity, it meant someone was being kidnapped or reported missing. Not a very charitable thing to hope for, true, but those were probably the only things that could be occur that'd get him out of his current duty. Dean truly enjoyed his job; there was nothing quite like being able to reunite missing persons with their loved ones, making families whole again.<p>

His city wasn't really known for its high amount of missing persons, though, so when there weren't enough open cases for Detectives, then they'd get loaned out to other departments. Such was the situation that morning.

"Winchester! Get your ass over here!"

Looking up, Dean saw Officer Ellen Harvelle waving a hand to motion him forward and frowned. She was an extraordinarily kind-hearted person despite her gruff exterior, and normally he'd be happy to see her. Ellen was the senior-most Officer on the street beat, and not because she wasn't qualified for a promotion. Far from it, in fact. The strange truth was that Ellen had been offered Detective more times than Dean could remember, but she claimed she enjoyed the street detail. Something about how she loved her job but she had no desire to actually marry it. As was usually the case when he was confronted with Ellen's mix of gruffness and familiarity, Dean's thoughts drifted to his father, and he wondered if perhaps he would have been better off not following in the old man's footsteps. As was also usual, he shoved the thought aside almost as soon as it cropped up and muttered to himself, "Wishes and ponies."

Dean wasn't sure what the full phrase was that those words belonged to anymore, but he remembered enough of it that they reminded him that sometimes what you wish and what you get aren't the same thing. He _really_ didn't want to be standing out in the middle of the Highway with honking horns and muffled cursing from frustrated drivers accompanying his footsteps, and yet there he was.

"Ellen!" he called out, splashing cheer across his face. Dean lengthened his strides to reach the woman's side more quickly, and saw to his surprise that his partner was already there. Castiel Aulneau and Ellen had a strangely symbiotic relationship. Whenever Ellen called for back-up or requested a consulting Detective, Castiel tried to be the one to answer, so Dean wasn't certain why he was surprised. Maybe because he knew for a fact that the other man was at the station until way too late last night (the night secretary, Anna, took great pleasure in informing him of his partner's work patterns, as if he wasn't aware of them or something).

Maybe it was because with any other person, Castiel was almost infamously late. Dean had teased the other man more than once about having a MILF fetish, but like most of his teasing, had only received a dour frown and a shake of the head in response.

("I don't understand you when you speak in acronyms, Dean. You know this," he'd said, and looked almost miserable while doing so. Dean hadn't the heart to tease him about it again.)

"'Bout time you arrived," Ellen said. The brisk air made her cheeks glow; she absently wiped at her nose. "I managed to keep as much of the scene intact that I could, but we've gotta get this road opened back up, kiddo. Rush starts in an hour."

Which meant, essentially, that rush had already started. Dean got the message. "It's a fucking traffic accident," he whined. She laughed.

"That it is. Enjoy," Ellen said, stepping back with a grin and a wave. Turning, she began to stride towards one of the many tow trucks that had crept onto the scene, her voice and tone completely different as she began berating the driver for being a vulture.

With a woe-begotten look towards his partner, Dean tried again. "It's a fucking traffic accident, Cas," he huffed. "Total waste to have detectives assigned to-"

"Dean."

Castiel placed one long-fingered hand on his forearm. Once Dean gave him his full attention, Cas squeezed lightly. "It can do no harm to give the area a basic perusal. Can it?"

Slumping with a sigh, Dean pasted on his most insincere grin. He knew Castiel hated falsified emotion, even if it was by and large a necessary part of their jobs. Castiel had asked him once to never make such displays when they were not necessary (as in, they were not questioning a witness or reassuring the family member of a victim), but to Dean, it felt necessary. He'd woken with a blinding headache that the bright sunlight and cheerful glittering of the lake water underneath the overpass was not helping, and then he'd been assigned to investigate another God damned...

"Nah, this'll be good for us, Cas. Back to basics, ya know?" Jerking his arm away from Castiel's gentle grasp, Dean continued, "It's not like I didn't bust my ass for years to make detective or anything. Why should it bother me that we're getting all these shitty assignments?"

"Charles would not assign us these tasks if he did not think they were worthy of our attention," Castiel said carefully, and Dean should have known better than to think that Aulneau would speak poorly of their boss.

"_Chuck_ is a drunk who is so distracted by writing bad pulp fiction novels that he doesn't even know who he's told to do what," Dean snapped. "Remember last week, when you, me, Vic and Ruby fucking Moreno were all dispatched to the same location? For a case, it turns out, that was resolved a week before that?"

"Dean..." Castiel tried again, his shoulders slumping under the folds of his ubiquitous trench coat. Stubble thickly coated his jaw, and Dean noticed for the first time that the other man's suit was even more rumpled than usual. The ever-present blue tie he wore around his neck was so loose that it looked liable to unwind itself with the next strong breeze.

Not that it was any of his business—he and Castiel were partners, not friends, he told himself—but Dean couldn't help but ask quietly, "Rough night?"

Surprised blue eyes darted to Dean's and then away. If Dean had blinked, he would have missed the motion. "It is of no consequence," Castiel murmured, blank face pointedly directed at the shards of broken tail light to Dean's left.

_Right_, Dean thought to himself. _Should have expected that_.

Any time he'd attempted to reach out to his emotionally distant partner, he'd received the exact same sort of response. If not for the minute flashes of surprise—as if Castiel was amazed that anyone would think his comfort worthy of their concern—Dean would have written him off as a dick a long time ago. As it was, every new small hesitation made him more determined to draw the other man out of his shell. He was a puzzle wrapped inside an enigma and slathered in secret sauce, and to someone like Dean—a detective who joined the force for the ignoble reasoning that he simply liked solving puzzles and tackling challenges—he was irresistible.

_Figuring him out __was irresistible_, Dean forcibly reminded himself. The fact that his thoughts lately had drifted more than once to wondering how many of those tiny reactions he could pull from Castiel if he applied his lips to the spot on his neck where stubble faded into the smooth skin, or if he'd manage to wring new ones (whimpers, hitching breaths, gasps) if he slid his fingers through his partner's wild dark hair made the detective more than slightly uncomfortable. Sure, the thoughts were all well and good while he was having them, but afterwards, as he lay in bed or leaned against the shower wall, limbs trembling, Dean couldn't help the panic that prickled across his skin as he wondered _What the hell is happening to me?_

Dean had never had a sexual thought about another male in his entire life before Castiel. Sure, he'd admired another man's physique, but in an absent oh-that-guy's-ripped sort of way. Never had he looked at the soft cushion of some man's lips and wondered with almost obscene hunger, or gotten a comradely slap on the back and wanted more. The simple fact of the matter was, though, that apparently Castiel was Dean's exception, something that was equally arousing and terrifying.

And right now, standing in front of his partner, the last thing he wanted was an inappropriate erection followed swiftly by a panic attack.

"Fine," Dean said, compressing his lips into a thin line. "Fine," he repeated, and Castiel turned back to him. It wasn't his imagination, Dean was certain, that there was a tiny furrow between the other man's brows (as if he were hurt by Dean's brusqueness) but he couldn't allow himself to think that way. A physical attraction Dean could learn to handle. Anything else was too far off the reservation. "Let's go take a look, shall we?"

The accident scene looked typical enough, for a six car pile-up. Multiple sets of tire tracks skittered across the road; there was one long, ugly smear leading up to the guardrail. Most of the vehicles had been towed away before Dean or Castiel arrived; only one was still there. Dean assumed it was the nexus vehicle.

"This the first domino?" he called out, not really caring who answered him. Accidents always brought out a flurry of people, both professionals and rubberneckers alike. If one of his co-workers didn't answer him, one of the voyeurs gaping from the sidelines would.

A feminine voice yipped out an _affirmative, sir!_ causing the first genuine grin of the day to cross Dean's face.

"Hello to you too, Jo," Dean sing-songed back. Glancing upward through his lashes, he was pleased to see a not-so-delicate flush flood the young woman's face. Although he had absolutely zero sexual interest in her (they were practically raised together, so even thinking about how he'd never thought of her that way felt vaguely incestuous and wrong) Dean didn't see anything wrong with enjoying the boost of confidence he got from Jo's flustered reactions to his flirting. It always seemed to bother Castiel, though, the detective remembered moments too late as he was treated to what amounted to a scowl. Dean tried to tell himself that wasn't an added encouragement to flirt with Jo again later and failed. He'd already acknowledged to himself that day that he liked seeing any odd flash of emotion on his partner's face; it was no use lying to himself.

Dean ignored the fact that he'd been lying to himself all day, and that he'd apparently turned into an emotive teenager with all of his internal whinging about his feelings, like he always accused his brother Sam of doing.

_Hypocrisy, thy name is Winchester_, he thought wryly, wondering if it was really hypocrisy if you recognized what you were doing. Probably.

Castiel pushed past him, and Dean fancied he could smell the irritation rolling off the other man. It was probably just whatever traces of scent was leftover from when he'd last showered mingling with his sweat, but it was clean and sharp, like a freshly sliced red pepper, and it made Dean's mouth water. And damn it, yeah this assignment was bullshit but he really needed to devote a little more attention to it and less on ridiculous observations about his partner. Dean forced himself to look over at the vehicle clinging to the guardrail and started.

It wasn't the type of car that was easily mistakable, and Dean didn't know anyone other than Pamela Barnes who would be willing to be seen driving a 1980 AMC Pacer. Not just a Pacer, but an electric purple station wagon, for Christsakes, complete with faux-wood panel details. Of course, Pamela had mostly covered all the paneling with various new-agey bumper stickers, political slogans, spray paint and decorative decals, but that was besides the point. It was the most hideous car Dean had ever seen, (and to his shame at the time, ridden in) but it was Pamela's joy (if not her pride). She called it Caroline and stroked the hood before she climbed inside, every time, as if it were beautiful and precious, and yeah, Dean understood that, even if he didn't understand why she felt that way about this particular car.

Seeing the entire right side crunched up into virtually nothing—Dean couldn't even see the passenger seat anymore—made something twist viciously in his stomach. He knew how he felt after Sam had rolled his Impala, but at least she was repairable; Caroline looked one step away from the scrap heap. Dean didn't know how Pam was going to cope with this.

"Okay, I was not expecting that," Dean said, taking several steps forward. "Is Pam okay?" he asked Jo anxiously.

"She's fine, Dean," Jo replied, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Well, as fine as can be expected."

"You know this vehicle and its owner." From anyone else the phrase would have come out like a question, but Castiel laid it out like a statement. Dean nodded.

At least he knew why he and Cas had been called to check the scene out; Pam was a friend, and Dean would have been pissed if he hadn't been. That realization coupled with the day's annoying self-awareness reared its head to once again whisper that he was such a God-damned hypocrite for suddenly wanting to take things seriously because it was one of his friends involved. It made him feel more than a bit like an asshole.

While Castiel asked Jo the usual sorts of questions (estimates on the velocity of the vehicle on impact, number of viable witnesses, injuries sustained) Dean assessed the damage to the Pacer, half with the eye of a cop, and half with the eye of a mechanic, knowing that when Pam knew he'd been on the scene she'd want his opinion on if Caroline was salvageable. All of the damage looked typical for the type of crash it was, except for one thing that Dean simply could not reasonably explain away. "Hey, Cas," he said, gesturing to the driver's side door. "Check this out."

Claw marks—Dean's mind refused to see them as anything else—scored the entire panel, as if a very angry and demented cat had scrabbled up the side via strength of its nails alone. Swallowing, Dean took a peek at the inside of the vehicle, but only saw a few minor spatters of blood. There was no trace of animal hair or a pet carrier, which was a bit of a relief (because Dean wasn't certain he wanted to meet the kind of domesticated animal that could score metal with just its claws, thanks) but at the same time, if Pamela hadn't been transporting anything, then what caused the marks?

"Was there a dog or cat or something in here?" he asked Jo, just to double check. Dean wasn't surprised when she replied, "No. Why?"

"Whattya think, Cas?" Dean said in an aside to his partner instead of responding as he crouched beside the car. His fingers hovered over the deep grooves. "What do you make of this?" he murmured, glancing upwards with raised brows.

If he'd thought his partner's face was expressionless before, it was nothing compared to how it was after a too-cursory glance at the door. It was completely and utterly closed off, and his voice was hollow as he said, "Perhaps the damage was sustained by another vehicle."

Castiel was standing stock still, his hands clenched into loose fists, as if he was aware that to hold them in any other manner would telegraph too much of his inner thought process. Dean frowned as he stood. A quick jerk of his head to Jo had the blonde nodding and stepping away. Presumably she'd seek out her mother and rat out Dean for being a jackass and sending her away, but the detective didn't really care. Cas was acting weirder than usual, and Dean wanted a few moments without others present to try to figure out why.

"If that's the case," he started, deceptively calm, "where are the paint scrapings? Metal shavings? And wouldn't it be in a more random pattern? These marks look really...deliberate. They're spaced too evenly apart to just be caused by random vehicular damage. Now, this is just my opinion..." Dean slanted his eyes towards Castiel, carefully watching his reaction. What he was going to say sounded crazy even to himself, but Aulneau wasn't acting like he disagreed with where Dean was clearly leading him. "But it almost looks like an animal clawed it up."

Something flickered behind Castiel's eyes; Dean couldn't tell what, but it wasn't worry over a crazy theory or amusement over a perceived jest. "No animal of the size that would create those marks could puncture metal in such a manner, nor successfully climb up the side of a vehicle moving down a busy highway at 80 mph," Castiel said stiffly.

Dean couldn't help it. He snorted. "Dude, you're being way too generous to this thing if you think this car could climb above 65."

Usually such a jokey remark would at least earn Dean a upward tug of the lips, but instead Castiel looked even more out of sorts. If Dean had to classify the emotion, he'd be tempted to say Cas looked frightened. He raised a hand and ran it through his windblown hair, a tell of uneasiness that Dean had never seen from his partner before.

"Perhaps we shouldn't bother with this case after all, Dean," Cas said, shocking the shit out of him. Things had just shifted from odd-weird (what with the claw marks) to Twilight-Zone-weird. Once given an assignment, Castiel had never even hinted at giving it anything other than his full attention, let alone dropping or passing along an investigation altogether. He continued with saying, "You're right. This is not our area of expertise, and-"

"Whoa. I'm gonna stop you right there," Dean said. "You did hear the part where this is one of my friends, didn't you?"

Castiel's mouth snapped shut. His eyebrows twitched. "Dean—"

Jo bounced back over, apparently instructed by Ellen that the detectives had been consulting one another long enough. "Mom...erm, Officer Harvelle," she corrected hastily, "wanted me to tell you guys that we really need to get this highway opened back up."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Thanks, Jo. I think we're done here."

"No problem, Dean," Jo beamed. "Oh, she also wanted me to tell you that Pam is at Mercy, and to warn you that her initial, ah, well..." Dean waited while Jo groped for words. "What she was saying here at the scene didn't make a whole lotta sense, I guess, according to the paramedics."

"Okay, Jo. Thanks," Dean repeated. He turned to go, one hand automatically finding its way to the center of Castiel's back, but he paused and glanced over his shoulder at Jo. There was only one garage that the Pacer could end up at, and he wanted another look at it before it was either scraped or he was asked to help with the repairs. "Hey, can you call Bobby for me and ask him to not touch Caroline until I get there to get a better look?"

"Of course," Jo nodded. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes before she turned away to give the tow-truck the go-ahead, and it was only when Castiel began speaking that Dean realized his hand was still splayed across Cas' back.

"Dean, I really think we should reconsider working this case. I know she is your...friend...but perhaps that is all the more reason to pass it along to another."

Coughing, Dean removed his hand, and it automatically went to the back of his neck, the way it always did when he was embarrassed. Castiel was able to discern his emotions better than Dean was able to pick up Cas', he knew, so he hurried to fill the charged silence.

"C'mon, Cas," he cajoled. "It's just getting interesting! Besides, aren't you the one that said it can't hurt to look?"

Dean could tell that Castiel was going to buckle before he even said a word. The corners of the man's eyes pinched, and they darkened to a deeper shade of blue as he nodded his acquiescence. Dean clapped him on the back again. "Great. Meet you at Mercy then."

"Perhaps," Castiel said, so faintly that Dean knew he hadn't wanted to be heard, "I was wrong." Dean desperately wanted to ask him what he was talking about, but that wasn't how their partnership worked. Instead he just squared his shoulders as if Castiel hadn't said anything and picked his way across the broken glass back towards the Impala.

* * *

><p>"Holy shit."<p>

His reaction was neither professional nor sensitive, Dean knew, but the woman laying in the bed only vaguely resembled the carefree, kookily rough and tumble new-age midwife that he called his friend. Slumped against the raised bedrail, Pam seemed exhausted and fragile—two words that Dean had never thought he'd apply to her. Dark hair, which usually lay loose on her shoulders, was pulled back into a lose chignon, marking the carefully packed bandages stand out starkly against her tanned skin.

"A charmer, as always, Dean," Pamela said, gingerly shifting herself up on the pillows. Her voice was rasping and thready, the amusement in it forced.

Both he and Cas had been briefed on Pam's injuries before entering the room, so he'd been ready for the signs of injury; it was her defeated demeanor that was the surprise.

"Heya, Pam," Dean said, making sure to infuse his voice with what he hoped to be his usual level of flirting jocularity. The answering twitch at the corner of her mouth could have been either the beginnings of a smile or a sob. Still, if it was a sob she rallied admirably as she said, "If I'd known ending up in the hospital was all it took to bring you running, I might have been tempted to do something crazy years ago. You bring that deliciously grumpy brother of yours?"

A bittersweet smile stole over his face. "Not this time, Pam It's me n' Cas."

"Ah. Probably for the best. It's not like I'd be able to properly appreciate him right now anyways. Hello, Detective Aulneau," Pamela sighed. From the moment Pam had met Castiel in passing over a year ago, she'd been oddly cool towards the man. Normally being single and male would have been enough to bring out her licentiousness, but she'd said, uncharacteristically, _while I'll enjoy the view,_ _I know a lost cause when I see it. _Their encounters had only gotten more strained from there.

"Ms. Barnes," Castiel rejoined. "Are you able to tell us what happened?"

"Yes, I sure as hell am, Aulneau," Pam snorted. "Whether or not you'll actually do anything about it is a whole other matter."

"Hey, hey," Dean interjected angrily, offended on Castiel's behalf. "I know you're not crazy about Cas for some reason, and ya know, whatever, but he's damn good at his job." He stopped himself from adding _and I'm not going to stand here and let you say otherwise_, but only just. Adrenaline zinged through him, and his hands slightly shook, which, once again, _what the hell_. This wasn't just a witness getting snippy with his partner, it was a friend, a hospitalized friend, no less, one who from the nurse's hushed reports was now-

"And they say romance is dead," Pam said dryly. "Good job, Winchester, defending your man against the big, bad blind woman."

Dean winced as guilt lurched through his stomach and risked a glance over at Castiel. If his partner thought there was anything odd or truly salacious about Pam's statement, he didn't show it. Darker blue eyes and a head tilt were the only indication that he'd heard her at all. "I understand your reticence in discussing your accident, Ms. Barnes," Castiel said softly. "However, Detective Winchester and I have been assigned to your case, and I would appreciate your cooperation."

"Pam," Dean started, and she cut him off with a violent wave of her hand.

"No, Dean," she said. "You're not going to apologize to me right now. I'm pissed and you're going to have to wallow in it." Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she directed her attention to vaguely where Castiel was standing and said, "To your earlier question, once again, yes, I am able to tell you what happened. The husband of one of my clients crawled up the side of my car, smashed out my windshield and gouged my eyes out."

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Dean was certain he couldn't have heard her right.

"Oh, I wouldn't expect you to believe it, Mr. If-I-Can't-See-It-It's-Not-Real," Pam snorted, which was fair, because Dean did have a bit of a reputation for not taking things on faith, "But you," she said to Castiel, "You should know I'm speaking nothing but the perfect truth. I don't know why, but the rat bastard did it."

Pam then proceeded to tell them about the client and her husband—a Mr. and Mrs. Robert and Ariel Goodfellow—how they had contracted her services for delivery of their first child through recommendation of a friend (not uncommon), how they'd wanted a fairly traditional home birth, how they'd seemed extremely knowledgeable about the process before even speaking to her, how they'd paid up front.

"So there was nothing unusual about this birth," Dean said. "The baby was born healthy, and mom was fine afterwards?"

"Yes, they both were perfectly healthy when I left them," Pam confirmed. "They wouldn't have been seeking retaliation."

"That happen a lot in your line of work, Pam?" Dean half-jokingly asked. "Disgruntled parents try to take you out after a birth gone wrong?"

Sniffing, Pam said, "You'd be surprised, Dean. My work is a lot more interesting than you'd ever imagine."

Forestalling any other questions in that particular line, Castiel queried softly, "Did the parents have any specific requests that differed from an average human home birth?"

"Human?" Dean snorted. "Cas, you're saying that like-"

"Yes," Pam interrupted. "They wanted the child's eyes anointed immediately after he was washed."

"And you used the ointment yourself," Castiel said, as if everything was falling in place for him. Dean sputtered as Pam shrugged.

"I was curious. I wanted to see."

Castiel bowed his head like Pam's admission pained him. He turned away from the bed and looked as if he was seriously considering just leaving the room altogether, but at the last moment returned. He stood at Dean's back, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off the other man, even through all the layers of clothing that separated them.

"I'm sorry," Dean said again, wondering if it was just one of those days where everything was going to bewilder him, "but can someone please explain what you guys are talking about? In little words for the slow kid," he added, pointing at his own chest.

Taking a deep breath, Pam said, "I wanted to see things as they truly are. Do you know how frustrating it is, Dean, to know that someone or something is different, but not able to physically see how? They had a full pot of the ointment there, and no one was watching me all that closely. It was just...too tempting. So after I put it on the kid's eyes, I smeared a little on my own. I just don't know how he figured out I'd used it."

"This is supposed to explain things to me why?"

"Because after I used the ointment I saw Robert Goodfellow and his family as they truly are; I saw them as goblins."

* * *

><p>"That," Castiel said around a mouthful of roast beef on wheat, "was completely pointless."<p>

It was the first thing either one of them had said to each other (beyond a grunted _meet me at the diner for lunch_) after leaving Pamela's hospital room.

"Come again?" Dean said. He picked up his milkshake and slurped noisily, causing Cas to glare at him, even though he himself was chomping away at his own food.

Swallowing, Castiel repeated, "That was pointless. Ms. Barnes is clearly traumatized and not thinking rationally. Otherwise she would not say such things to us." Picking up a fry, he swiped it through the healthy dollop of basil mayonnaise in his condiment cup and popped it in his mouth. Lately eating with Castiel had become a nearly pornographic experience to Dean, as it was one of the few times he ever saw his partner really animated. The man loved his beef and grease. At that moment, though, Dean was still reeling from Pamela's statement and barely noticed.

"I don't know man, she seemed pretty rational to me."

"Dean," Castiel said. He set down his sandwich to lean forward and lowered his voice. "She claimed that a goblin attacked her on the highway."

With a shrug, Dean absently bit down on the dill spear that he rarely touched that came with his daily burger. He grimaced but didn't spit it out. "Yeah, well, Pam's always been a bit off. Maybe it's some sort of, I don't know, coping mechanism or something. Like you said, she has to be traumatized by what happened."

"Of course," Castiel said, almost, dare Dean think it, happily. "After lunch I shall begin the paperwork."

Brows furrowing, Dean said, "Whoa there, cowboy. Just because I said I thought Pam was a bit shaken up doesn't mean I think there's nothing for us to investigate."

Castiel paused, fingers curled around his sweaty glass of iced tea. The lemon slice bobbed along with the ice, and it took Dean a full three seconds to realize that they were doing so because Castiel's hand was shaking.

Breaking his own self-imposed rule to never pry into Castiel's personal business, Dean reached out and grasped his partner's wrist loosely. "You okay?" he asked.

The effect was instantaneous. His partner jerked his arm away, knocking the tea over onto his plate and flooding what remained of his lunch. Luckily the glass hadn't been full, otherwise the mess would have been larger. "I am fine," Castiel stuttered.

"No, you are fucking not fine," Dean snapped, extracting a fistful of paper napkins from their booth's dispenser. "I'd even go so far as to say you're freaking out. What the hell is wrong, man? Maybe I can help."

"There is nothing for you to concern yourself with, Dean," Castiel insisted. Carefully, he reached across the table and took several napkins from him, taking the few extra seconds it took to open them before laying them on the sticky mess. "I take it from your earlier statement that you believe we should question Mr. Goodfellow," Cas added, in an obvious bid to change the subject.

_Damn it, damn it_. He'd allowed his (he wasn't going to say feelings, he wasn't, _wasn't_) curiosity (that was better) about Castiel cloud his better judgment and now things were going to be awkward around them for a little while, the way they always were when Dean pushed too much on personal crap.

"Yeah," he said, allowing the change despite the crunching-gravel feeling in his stomach that whispered he should keep pushing. "I think we gotta. Made a call while you were in the can earlier and left Jo a message asking her to take a look at the names of the owners involved in our accident."

"And?"

"And, wouldn't you know, she texted back that there was a 2009 Prius in the pileup registered to an Ariel Goodfellow," When all Castiel did was sigh and stare down at his plate, Dean said, "We have a vic that claims she was assaulted while driving her vehicle, and a car owned by the accused assailant's wife on the scene. Doesn't matter if she thought he looked like a goblin, Satan, or Michael Vick at the time, we owe it to her to at least go over to the dude's house and check it out."

"Were you not hoping to leave early today to help Sam decorate for his daughter's birthday?' Castiel reminded him, and shit, he had mentioned that a few days ago, hadn't he? "I'll question Mr. Goodfellow by myself if you wish to go," his partner offered. Dean winced; damn it, he did want to go. He loved his niece almost as much as he loved his brother (something that Dean himself had never thought possible, as he'd practically raised Sam after their mom's death, and in a bizarre way it was like DeeDee was his granddaughter as well as his niece, but he didn't poke that thought with the proverbial stick too often) and Cas seemed to dote on her just about as much as Dean did.

The few times he'd seen the solemn man speaking to her he'd seemed visibly lit from within, and DeeDee talked about him each time after he left incessantly in turn. In fact, she'd asked Dean if Cas was coming to her party with serious green eyes while Sam struggled with her dirty blonde tangles just that morning (he'd been considering asking his partner to the party anyways, if only to see his partner's rare smile on display for her, but her asking for him specifically had clinched it) and now he didn't know how he was going to ask without it being extremely awkward.

Moreover, he didn't know if he should ask anymore. He really, really should not have pushed, Dean thought with a sick lurch, angry with himself for thinking it as soon as it sprung forward.

Because Castiel—who had always spoken of the importance of telling the truth, who corrected cashiers when they gave him back too much money, who'd made more than one witness cry with his harsh, honest bluntness—was lying to him. Dean wasn't sure how he could tell, and yet he felt as though it was his fault (which was ludicrous, because who forces someone to lie?). But he just knew that if he left Cas by himself then he'd never really question Goodfellow at all. And now, knowing himself, Dean would feel compelled to ferret the reason out of the intensely private man and risk alienating him further. If Cas was lying to him, it had to be for a good reason, a part of him said, but the larger part, the one that enjoyed piecing things together, would never let this go until he knew everything.

Just because he wanted to trust Cas didn't mean he should. This was a man he'd been trying to bring into his life, who he'd introduced his family to. There was no way Dean could allow Castiel to hoard his secrets, not in the face of that, and especially not when those secrets seemed to involve one of Dean's friends being injured.

Pasting a sick smile on his face, Dean said, "Nah, that's no problem. Sammy's a big boy, I'm sure he can handle crepe paper streamers on his own." Digging some bills out of his wallet (with an extra tip for their waitress due to the still-sticky tabletop) Dean tossed them down on the table before standing and gathering his suit jacket. "C'mon," he beckoned. "I'm driving."

* * *

><p>The Goodfellow's sitting room was neat, tidy, and sparsely furnished. Dean sank onto the plastic slip- covered loveseat wishing he had a coffee to occupy his hands. It wasn't that one wasn't offered when after they introduced themselves and entered the home, but rather, when Robert (call me Rob, please) said, "Allow me to get you fine gentlemen some coffee," Castiel had, rather rudely and abruptly said, "No. My partner and I refuse to partake of your refreshments."<p>

"Come now, Detective...Aulneau, was it? Surely one cup of coffee is the least I can do for one of our city's finest."

Dean had been about to pipe up and accept when Castiel shook his head firmly. "I said no, Goodfellow. Offer a third time and I shall answer the same. Do not press."

"Ah, but you know I must. It's only polite, after all, and your...partner...has not given his own refusal, let alone twice over."

The entire exchange had been like watching a ping-pong match of words. Dean didn't know what the big deal was about coffee; maybe Cas had gotten a bad vibe walking in and he didn't want to accept anything from a suspect. He wasn't sure what about the man set Cas off, though, because all Dean saw was a slight, jittery man with square wire-rimmed glasses, short wavy brown hair who was rocking a beard and dressed like a yuppie. Yeah, he smelt a bit of booze, too, but Dean believed that if he'd been in a freeway pileup then he'd want to indulge, too, middle of the day or not. Hoping to calm the charged atmosphere, Dean prepared to say, _Really, no big, thanks but no thanks_ when Castiel snapped, "Thrice offered, thrice refused. I speak for us both."

_O-kay then_, Dean had thought. Castiel was at times unintentionally rude, and came out with some bizarre phrasing, but he had only ever that brusque with their more twisted perps: the men who stole children to sell or abuse, a woman who had dropped her dementia-suffering father off on a street corner in the middle of winter because she wanted more time to gamble, the husband who murdered his pregnant wife, not knowing that she'd still been in contact with her sister despite attempting to force her to cut off all contact with her family.

Goodfellow hadn't seemed offended; if anything, his bloodshot eyes looked amused. "Ah," he smirked, and Dean had a feeling he was going to learn to hate that little quirk of speech very, very quickly, "So that's how it is. Interesting." Then he'd just spun on his heel and waved them further into the house. "Business it is then. Come with me, gentlemen, and we'll get down to it."

"What can you tell us about the accident this morning, Rob?" Dean said, pulling out his small flip-top notebook and a ballpoint. The loveseat squeaked as he shifted his weight to prop the notebook on his knee, and he fought making a face. What sort of douche covered their furniture in plastic? It sure as hell wasn't comfortable, and he couldn't imagine raising a kid in such a sterile environment.

"I already gave Officer Harvelle my statement right after it happened," Goodfellow said, and his eyebrows tilted and mouth pulled down in a perfect expression of concern tinged with annoyance which sent all of Dean's warning bells ringing. People only ever reacted that way to more questioning on television, in Dean's experience. In real life, they either made a whining fuss about it, talking about time wasted, or flew into a near rage, _yelling_ about time wasted.

"Just our job to follow up," Dean smiled. He watched as Rob glanced from his smile to Castiel's single nod and saw as he relaxed, the small line of tension that had been making him sit upright in his wingback chair easing.

"Alright then," Rob smiled back, and Dean began questioning him in earnest. Where were you headed when the accident occurred? What lane were you in? How fast were you going? As he spoke, he snuck occasional peeks at Castiel, who was sitting stiffly forward, blue eyes narrowed at Goodfellow as if he expected the man to jump up and flee in the middle of some rather admittedly tame questions. It was erasing what ease Dean had been able to procure, and he unsubtly poked Cas in the side, hard. He jerked before turning that narrow-eyed focus on him, lips clamped tightly shut. Not the most appropriate moment to notice how attractive his partner looked while visibly irritated, Dean knew, but it was what it was. He was so lost in staring at Castiel and Castiel staring at him that it took Rob clearing his throat, loudly, to pull his attention away, and that was just embarrassing.

"Is that all, gentlemen?" he asked. Dean coughed.

"Yeah," he said roughly. "I believe that's everything." No matter what questions he'd asked, Goodfellow's story was convincingly told and logical to boot. It was all so normal that Dean had felt himself relaxing, wondering if fear and his own paranoia had been looking for reasons to push Cas away, to create a conspiracy where there was none. _Yes_, Rob had said, he was in the accident. _No_, he hadn't realized Ms. Barnes was as well, was she alright? Dean wasn't sure what he was expecting. It wasn't like Rob was going to jump out of his chair and announce, _Oh, you're right, my bad, I forgot to mention that the accident happened because I turned into a goblin and ripped Pam's eyes out because she stole some of my freaky magic eye cream._

He needed to go home, take a nap, and start this day over again. Or better yet, go to sleep and wake up tomorrow. It was his day off, and there was DeeDee's party...he could call Cas in the morning and he could come over early, get in some one-on-one playing time with her before all the guests arrived. Dean stood. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Goodfellow."

"Of course," he replied. "Allow me to escort you to the door." Dean moved to follow Rob, pausing when he saw Castiel fishing a card out of one of the myriad pockets that dotted his trench coat. He flicked it casually onto the boxy Ikea end table. "In case you think of anything else you'd like to say on your behalf," he said, making it sound like a threat.

Rob must have thought it sounded that way, too, because he made a low noise in his throat, eyes going wide. "You said this was just a follow up, you said-" The dude began vibrating—there was really no other word for it—which kinda freaked Dean out a bit.

"Hey, man, it is," he reassured him. Clamping his hand on his shoulder in a hail-fellow-well-met manner, he tried to distract him by saying, "Where's your wife and kid at, anyways? Pam said she just gave birth like two days ago."

"I don't see where that's any of your concern," Rob snapped, his demeanor totally the reverse of the calm, affable guy Dean had been talking to for the better part of an hour. Dean took a step back, hands held in the air. Castiel growled—actually fucking growled—and took three steps forward.

"It really wasn't," Dean said, "but now with the way you're acting I'm starting to think maybe it should be."

"Starting? _Starting_? Oh, Castiel, you've hooked yourself a real bright one here," Rob mocked.

"Wait...do you two know each other?" It would make a lot of sense—a terrible amount of sense. Rob's unease, Castiel's attitude, the tension zinging between them...

"No," Castiel said at the same time Goodfellow said "Yes."

Dean wanted to move away from both of them, to just run away to sort out this latest development, preferably someplace with beer and nachos, but couldn't bring himself to move his feet. Instead he settled for rumbling, "Okay, Goodfellow, you're going to stop hiding things right now and tell me what the hell's going on." Out of the two lying liars in the room with him, he felt more confident in extracting the truth from Rob than Castiel. Castiel, who Dean had thought had never lied to him, but now he wasn't sure about.

"Dean-" Castiel began, but Dean cut him off. "You shut up," he said. "I'm mad at you right now." Rob snorted.

"Yeah, you're worried about me hiding things from you?" He shook his head and seemed to come to some sort of internal decision.

"Hob, you will not speak a word!" Castiel spat. The name sparked a memory in Dean, of the picture of a woodcutting in one of Sam's college-level Mythology coursebooks of a small hunched figure with a wild cat's tail and matching feline claws. There was no possible way, Dean wanted to shout, but like Sherlock said, _Once __you eliminate__ the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how __improbable__, must be the truth_. Goodfellow gave him a shark-like grin, and his eyes were sharp, pinched.

"Why not? What have I to lose now? You've already marked me. The _Herlaþing_ will be at my door within the hour. If I do not flee, I will die. My life, my wife's life, everything we've built here, the stable nest for our child, is ruined!"

"Somebody better tell me what the fuck is going on," Dean warned. Rob (or Hob, or whatever this man—he suspected, this _thing_—was called) bowed to him, and all Dean could think was that it was an old-fashioned, courtly gesture, like something straight out of a...a fairy tale, or something, and holy shit he wasn't actually thinking what he was thinking, was he?

"You should question your partner, if you're the sort that cares about things unspoken and hidden." Straightening, he continued, "I can tell you're a man who seeks the justice and truth. It is the ultimate irony that someone like Castiel should have insinuated himself into your life then, isn't it? Someone who has lied to you from the very beginning of your acquaintance, I'd wager. Tell me, has he ever shown you what he really looks like?"

Dean whipped his head around to stare at Cas, mouth hanging slightly open. Castiel's face seemed to fold in upon itself, and Dean saw the confirmation of the betrayal reflected in lightening blue eyes, the color leaching from them in something akin to panic.

"What about Jimmy Novak? Has our princeling ever told you about him?"

Cas seemed to stumble on his feet, swaying like he'd been socked in the stomach. "Yes, I recognized you as soon as you walked through my door, your Highness," Rob sneered. "You really should have invested in a quality glamour if you didn't want to be recognized."

"Please stop talking," Castiel said.

"Why? So you can explain all this away later as the ramblings of a mad man? So you can cling to your pathetic little life with your pathetic little human a bit longer? No, I don't think so."

With a voice like rolling thunder, as if it was wrenched from the earth itself, Castiel said, "I command you to stop."

"Hmm. No," Rob said. "You lost the right to command when you were banished from the knowe. We're all just sinners here, Castiel, on equal footing." Dean felt that the conversation had moved beyond him, running along currents he no longer even peripherally understood. "I want your dear Detective Winchester to know just what he considered bringing into his bed, his home, his _family_." Castiel made a noise—not a whimper or a groan but somewhere in between—and directed his stare at Dean once more. His mouth opened and closed, and then an expression of so much yearning it almost undid him right there slipped across his features as he whispered, "Dean?"

"Oh, yes, Castiel," Goodfellow said, tone smug as any Bond villain about to embark on a truly epic monologue. "Because of you and your meddling my family has to leave our home or forfeit our lives, and I will be damned to the detective's Christian Hell before I'm the only one that loses here. I want you to know the pain of opportunity lost, want you to taste it every night when you wake up in your bed, _alone_. Do you know, I believe that if you had just been honest with the detective from the beginning, he would have accepted you?" Rob laughed. "I was wrong before—_that_ is the ultimate irony of this! He hungers for you even now, suspecting that you've played him false. I can see into the hearts of men, see their wishes and desires," he said, his voice dropping into a sibilant hush. "All he ever wanted was for you to be open with him, and he would have allowed you any liberty in return."

It was all too much. Dean didn't know how Goodfellow was able to tell how he felt about Castiel, if it was a lucky guess or something more, and he really didn't know what to make of all the accusations flying. Chest constricting, he croaked, "Cas, c'mon, we're leaving." He made the mistake of turning his back on Rob and heading towards the door.

"Oh no you don't," he heard behind him, and then he was on the floor. He heard something that may have been Castiel shouting from above him, but he was too busy wrestling the oily, sinuous body atop his own to pay too much attention. Dean was flopped over onto his back, and Rob's face hung close to his, mania flushing him. "If you leave now you won't really believe. You'll rationalize, you'll tuck it away, and I can't have that." Dean bucked but Goodfellow simply slid his legs on either side of him, effectively trapping him with his thighs. He pulled out a small bottle, popped the top, and squirted the stuff inside all over Dean's eyes. He was just able to make out Rob being ripped away forcibly by the hair on his head. Dean heard a thud as his body connected with the room's farthest wall, but it was too late.

Burning unlike anything he'd ever felt before assailed Dean, and he cried out unashamedly. He could feel himself thrashing but couldn't seem to stop. Hands reached for him and pinned him to the ground, and Castiel's voice called his name, over and over.

"Dean, Dean," he said, and how had he ever thought his partner hid his emotions before? Castiel sounded perfectly broken now. "Please, please, God, don't allow it to have been too much." Warm thumbs swept the wetness from Dean's closed eyes, tears mixed with the ointment he'd been assaulted with. "Don't say anything, Dean, it'll be alright. No matter what you hear, no matter what is offered, just please...Just be quiet and keep your eyes closed."

_I was curious_, Pam had said. _I wanted to see things as they truly are._

The truth. A question pressed on his brain, and perhaps this was all a dream, and he'd gone crazy, because it sounded as if the ointment was speaking to him as he heard, _Do you want to see things as they truly are?_ His curiosity overwhelmed Castiel's frantic warnings.

"Yes," he gasped, and opened his eyes.

Colors, textures, and Castiel exploded into his vision. Peripherally Dean could see that the room beyond was completely different—walls that had been gray were now a rich burgundy, the ugly plastic-covered loveseat was now an ornate fainting couch—but it was Castiel who held his attention.

"Dean," he was still saying, with an added "Why did you say it?" followed swiftly with, "Look away, please."

There was no way that Dean was going to be able to do that. He stared. His partner looked exactly the same as he had before—same blue eyes, same floppy hair, same ridiculous trench coat—only now two large, dark wings protruded from his back and fanned out wide on other side. They shone in the afternoon sunlight like motor oil pooled on still water. Individual feathers twitched and quivered along the top ridges as Castiel stood and moved away.

Raising those dark wings high on either side, Castiel flexed them, allowing them to stretch until they were full extended. The posture was aggressive but his face impassive; Dean couldn't begin to guess what he was feeling.

"Are you an angel?" Dean asked.

"No," Castiel replied. "My people have not been called angels for a very long time."

Rushing white noise filled his ears followed by a high pitched squeal. Dean blinked one more time, lower lip trembling, before the rushing swallowed him and he tumbled into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>"<em>Hush," a voice said as a hand skimmed across his brow. Dean leaned into the touch, and the voice said again, "It's all a bad dream." It was reassured and serene, making Dean feel as if he could curl those words around him and be safe. Warm breath ghosted through the short hairs at the nape of his neck before a soft, moist press of lips touched his temple. Smooth hands skimmed across his bare shoulders, and Dean made a noise of contentment low in his throat as he allowed himself to relax into cotton sheets, cool against the skin of his back. <em>

"_Open for me," the voice said, gently. Dean felt his legs glide across the sheets, heard a low thrum come from the body that pressed itself all too briefly against his own. It was one slippery, long slide followed by a gasp, and a low, intimate rumble that might have been laughter. "Your mind," he was told. _

_**Oh**__. That brought forth a swell of something, but before it could overpower him or buffet him out of the peaceful place he was in, he was told, "Don't be frightened." _

_And that easy, Dean wasn't. The panic subsided. Drowsing still, he opened his eyes a crack, and there above him, silhouetted in the darkness and surrounding him with thick feathers and warm, pliant skin was Castiel. "It's you," he murmured as he sank into the pillows, allowing his eyes to slip shut once more. _

"_I'm going to help you through this, beloved," Cas said, the whispered promise of a lover. Dean felt his hands reach up and tangle in his hair, felt them pull him closer until their lips met and began dancing in a slow-burning, spit-slick kiss. Dean reveled in the renewed press of Cas against him and the easy roll of their hips. Even the knowledge that they were both nude and he didn't remember how they got that way didn't perturb him. The sheets were no longer cool; they'd heated with their languid movements, with the way that Dean's temperature spiked at the calm, careful manner in which Cas slotted them against one another. Dean's fingers dug into the bedding, making a faint scritch-scratching sound that was barely audible over his own breathing. Cas' hot length smeared pre-come on Dean's belly, evidence that this was not just a fever-dream. _

"_Want," Dean managed to say, shifting just right, and there was a soft noise from above him, then perfect pressure wrapping around him in a fist, and __**oh**__..._

"_Oh," he may have moaned aloud as he came in thick, lazy ropes. Kisses pressed along his jawline and what could have been sweat but Dean simply knew were tears collected in the hollow of his throat. He wanted to open his eyes again, to see Cas, but lassitude stole him completely, and he drifted away._

* * *

><p>Dean woke to the first wisps of dawn through a low window, the smell of sweat, and Castiel sitting on the edge of an expansive mattress. He was naked, but Cas was fully dressed, shirt sleeves buttoned and tie snug.<p>

"Hello, Dean," he said, as if he hadn't had his fist wrapped around his cock just a few hours earlier, as if Dean still couldn't see the large wings that were tucked close to his body.

"You-" Dean croaked out, his hand flopping in the general direction of Castiel's body. He seemed to understand.

"Yes."

"And then you and I-"

A trace of shame tightened the corners of Cas' eyes. "Yes," he said again, simply. Turning so that he faced Dean, Castiel reached a hand out.

"I don't think I want you to touch me right now," Dean said, now fully awake and suddenly, blisteringly angry. "No, check that. I _know_ I don't want you to touch me."

This assertion seemed to stun the...hell, Dean didn't even know what he was supposed to refer to Cas as now..._man_ seemed to be out, but Dean was having difficulty labeling the male next to him as "fairy". Either way, Castiel appeared distraught by Dean's rejection.

"From what the Hob said, I did not think you'd be adverse to..."

"That was before I knew you were a lying liar from Neverland or where the fuck ever!"

They both sat frozen after Dean's outburst, Cas with his hand still outstretched, Dean naked and feeling it acutely under what he assumed were Castiel's thin sheets. Cas finally lowered his hand and Dean scooted upwards in the bed. He pulled the sheet up with him, tucking it to just under his chin. A part of him felt ridiculous for doing so—what was he, some virginal maiden protecting her virtue?-but a larger part of him wanting the imagined safety of a layer between Dean's bare skin and Cas.

"I am not from..." Cas started, then shook his head. "You know that, of course. You were being sarcastic." Heaving a sigh, Castiel pulled his legs up onto the bed, crossing them Indian style. The fact that he was wearing battered black dress boots while doing so didn't seem to bother him in the least. "I come from a regional knowe, or as it is referred to in your culture sometimes, a fairy hill."

Head spinning, Dean asked, "This knowe have a name?"

Castiel nodded. He lifted his gaze to look at Dean, their eyes locking. "We generally call it Leinster, if we have need to give a name for our home to outsiders. Otherwise, it is simply the _knowe_, or seldomly the _sídhe, _but only the oldest still refer to it as that."

"Leinster," Dean repeated. "Where your file says you were born. Lienster, NY. I did wonder about that, when I googled it and nothing came up. Thought it was a typo."

A frown tugged down the corners of Cas' mouth. "You went through my file?"

"Dude, seriously?" Dean scoffed. "You're not really going to try for some sort of moral indignation, are you?"

Deflating, Castiel looked away. "I suppose not."

Licking his lips, Dean shifted, wincing at his body's all-over soreness. He had no idea where the pervasive ache had come from; he'd gotten into worse fights than the brief struggle with Goodfellow, and it wasn't as if the sex was all that athletic, from what he could remember of it. Dean shied away from that particular line of thought. He'd have to face it soon enough, if in no other capacity than washing away the traces of dried semen in the shower.

"So...what exactly are you?"

Not exactly tactful, but Dean really wasn't able to think of another way of phrasing that particular question. Castiel didn't seem offended. If anything, he seemed eager to answer Dean's question.

"My people are called _leanan sídhe. _They are...we are," he corrected himself, "also sometimes called a muse. It is common and virtually expected in my family to give artists inspiration or to visit them in dreams, imparting ideas and expressing admiration."

Something about the term nibbled at the edge of Dean's mind, probably another tid-bit from helping Sam study for one of his classes. It flirted with the edge of his awareness, but he wasn't able to exactly recall what was so familiar about it.

"Goodfellow said that you'd been banished. What'd he mean by that?"

"That is no longer an issue," Castiel replied, surprising Dean with his evasion when just moments before he'd seemed to relish telling Dean whatever he'd wanted to hear. "I received a call this morning inviting me home."

This made Dean distinctly nervous, especially with the way Cas was decidedly not looking at him.

"What, just out of the blue?"

Castiel simply shrugged.

"Okay, fine," Dean decided to change tacks. " Why _were_ you banished, then?"

"I...was asked to leave because I had no wish to be like my family and claim a human under false or misleading circumstances. Binding a human can be detrimental to their mental health, and I had no desire to do such a thing to a living being."

Pieces clicked into place, forming a picture Dean really didn't want to see. "And now?" he asked anyways, wanting confirmation for his suspicions before he completely lost it.

Instead of answering, dark eyes briefly touched Dean's undoubtedly scraggly bed-head and the stubble on his chin. "You should shower," he declared. "We need to leave soon if we're to arrive at the knowe before nightfall."

"Whoa—what's with this 'we', kimosabe? The only place I'm going today is home."

"Do you know why Pamela Barnes' eyes were taken?" Castiel asked him, seemingly apropos of nothing. "Because the use of the ointment she stole is stridently monitored, to prevent average humans from seeing that which they should not. It's dangerous to our community. If humanity discovered our presence, we would be hunted and slaughtered wholesale."

"Okay," Dean said cautiously. "What's this got to do with me and going home?"

Castiel stood and began pacing, making Dean feel he was at a distinct disadvantage. No one, he thought, should have to have such a serious conversation while completely naked with the...person, individual?...they'd gotten naked _for_ the night previously fully dressed and towering over them.

"With the amount of ointment Pam took and her...reputation for occult leanings already, taking her vision would be considered by our community to be enough. With you, though..." Castiel finally decided on a direction for his nervous energy and went over to one of the low dressers along the far wall, opening drawers and pulling out a few basics: underwear, socks, t-shirt. "Dean, with the amount of ointment the Hob subjected you to, the way he made sure it was spread to your third eye as well...the only options my brothers and sisters would accept would be binding you to one of us or death."

"Bind." Dean watched the line of Castiel's back as he bent to pull a pair of jeans out of the bottom drawer. "Bind as in what you left your home because you refused to do? _That_ kind of binding?"

To his credit, Castiel didn't shy away or hide from Dean's low-voiced accusation. Instead, he turned around and placed the small pile of clothes at Dean's feet.

"Yes."

A long silence followed Castiel's admission, then Cas said, softly, "It was either I bind you or someone would be sent to kill you. Dean, I couldn't bear the thought. Normally my family will let their humans live out their lives in their natural realm, but doing so reduces their life spans considerably. Muses have a tendency to drive their partners mad. The only way to prevent this is for the human to reside within the knowe."

"Reside. As in live there?"

Swallowing, Castiel agreed, "As in live there. And..." Reluctantly, he added, "Residents of the knowe are forbidden from contact with humans in the outside world."

Anger buffeted Dean. He slammed his fists against the mattress, hard. "Gee, Cas, were you at least going to let me say goodbye to DeeDee and Sammy before you whisked me off to fulfill your...Persephone fantasy?"

Licking his lips, Castiel nudged the clothes a bit closer to Dean and said, "That would be inadvisable. The...appearance of our deaths has already been crafted. To the world outside, Detective Dean Winchester and his partner Castiel Aulneau were killed late last night by the deranged Robert Goodfellow, who then proceeded to kill his family before finally killing himself."

"Holy shit, you're actually serious about all of this," Dean said. Much of the conversation that morning had seemed to Dean as if it was occurring between two other people, not Castiel and himself. The threat of never seeing his niece, never speaking to Sammy again, of making them think Dean was dead, jarred him out of his dissociative state. "I'll kill you before I let you do this, Cas," he spat.

With a sudden snarl and a smack to the mattress of his own, Castiel snapped, "There is nothing for you to let happen, Dean. It's already done. I tried to give you a better option last night, but you still said yes anyways, when I explicitly told you not to say a word!" Huffing, he continued, "Besides, you would be unable to kill me."

"Why?" Dean childishly sniped. "Because of our profound bond?"

"No," Castiel shot back. "Because I'm immortal. You can stab me, shoot me, burn me at the stake, and I will not die."

Taken aback, Dean pulled his legs up underneath him so that he was essentially kneeling on the mattress, the sheet held to his chest with one hand while he balanced with the other. He felt very small.

"Oh," he said, and yeah, not the most intelligent or blistering come-back. "How about this," Dean said, licking his lips and picking his words carefully. "I was pissed enough with you just being a douchebag liar. If you try to drag me away from my family, I will never forgive you. I will fight every step of the way, and every moment I'll be looking for an escape."

Castiel's eyes grew large, but he said evenly, "At least you'll be alive to do so." Then something in his expression hardened. "Like it or not, Dean, you said yes. You're mine now, and just a man. You will not be able to escape me." Jaw set, he tilted his head upwards just slightly and said, "Get dressed. We are leaving in an hour."

_The End_


End file.
